


The Wee Small Hours

by Chandri



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Bittersweet, Canonical Character Death, Closure, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Future Fic, Gen, Percy-centric, Sad, Team as Family, Whitestone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-05-04 04:37:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14585115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chandri/pseuds/Chandri
Summary: They reach their destination unexpectedly, stepping out into a clearing on a bit of a rise; there’s not much to look at, here, just a hill descending into the trees, the distant sound of a stream, and what from a distance, looks like a heavy frost, but when they get closer, resolves into something quite impossible.A rough wooden bench, surrounded by a thick carpet of snowdrops.Two years later, Percy wants some answers.





	The Wee Small Hours

**Author's Note:**

> I still have a lot of Campaign One feelings, guys. Here are a whole bunch of them.

He wasn’t all right. Not right away.

He didn’t lie to Vex. He was… better, after the downfall of Vecna. After the titan was left frozen, arms raised to crush Vasselheim, Percy’s breath still caught in his chest like at any moment things would overturn and… they couldn’t have won. How could they have won?

They didn’t all win. In his head, Percy heard Scanlan’s voice after the long, horrified silence that had come after Vax told them about his deal: “So if we win, you lose.” 

It still feels like that. They paid such a price. Everyone did. 

But… he’s better, now. He knows he is. He remembers being with Vex, after - realizing with a rush that gods,  _ gods  _ he missed them - his other-- his first family. His blood. It was not unlike a dam breaking, and included the chaos that such an event would cause. He was standing, when she asked him - asked if he was all right. He found himself staring, up, impossibly far up at the distant silhouette of what remained of Thar Amphala, and suddenly, for the first time in years, he could see his mother’s face, clear in his mind. “I miss my family,” he’d said, and for a moment, his knees turned to water and he had to lean on her, though of course she’d seen that coming a mile away, already had her arms about his waist.

She always has been stronger than him.

Fortunately, she was also awake far earlier than he was this morning, which means that when he slips out of bed at moonrise, she doesn’t stir. At least, she doesn’t seem to. He has no doubt he’ll hear about it later if he’s wrong.

He doesn’t wake her dressing, but pads softly into the next room to pull on trousers, shirt, boots, and catch up his coat on the way out. There’s a guard at the end of the hall, but Lord Percival rising to work in the wee small hours is hardly out of the ordinary, so the woman barely nods as he passes. He doesn’t take the stairs down to his workshop, though, pulling on his coat as he goes. He feels chilled already, though he’s not sure if it’s the dark, deep night outside or the day just behind him. Below, in the city, there are probably still revelers going strong. Vex was down there with them until Keyleth and Gilmore all but carried her back, sleepy rather than drunk; she’s been foregoing drink the last month or two. Those two are probably still in the library with Pike and a cask of wine, the way Percy left them. Grog and Scanlan are probably still down in the town.

He was invited to both, but politely declined. He feels too raw.

He’s not sure what did it; what finally broke the dam this time. He spent so long not thinking about it; else he’d never have been able to walk away from Whitestone that first time (run away, crawl away). Maybe it was Vax that shook it loose - losing one more loved one in such a stupid, infuriating way…

Gods, he’s still so angry about that, even two years on.

He thinks maybe that was it. Percy has always found anger so very useful, even though for many years after the massacre he didn’t really realize it. In hindsight he realized that a large part of what Orthax fed upon was his rage, helpless and unrealized. The demon came when he was weak, and so long as he was weak, he could be used. So long as his anger was stronger than his grief, or his capacity to feel love - well. Maybe not quite. He’d said no, after all, when Orthax wanted Cass. He’d let Scanlan take the gun. He’d known, logically, that the voice in his head was lying. That his impulses were…  _ wrong _ . She’d said he was broken; that he always had been.

And:  _ Broken, am I?  _ he’d thought, after his visit to the blood pool.  _ I’ll show you _ .

The air is cold tonight, a sharp prickling chill that strikes hard as he slips out into the back courtyard. He waves off another guard a few paces away and keeps going, pulling his fur-lined coat closer about himself, gloved hands tucked under his arms. Colder than he thought, colder than it was a few hours ago, but yes, he can still hear music drifting up from the town. 

The Night of Ascension in Whitestone is… strange. The story of the battle, of Vox Machina, is woven into the very fibre of the city, these days - Whitestone is proud of its heroes, loves Lady Vex’ahlia more than it ever loved Lord Percival, a circumstance for which Percy can only be grateful. He knows his failings, and he’s sure his part of the legend wouldn’t hold up too well under close scrutiny; nor would Cassandra’s. So the Lady Cassandra is the people’s tragic hero, the Lady Vex’ahlia their beloved idol, favoured by Pelor, golden and glowing. Percy has always been happy to fade back into his workshop and let the legend be carried by people more qualified than he is. But Whitestone loved Vox Machina for their freedom long before the rise of Vecna, knew them in the wake of the rebellion, worked side by side with them to rebuild. Whitestone considers Vox Machina  _ theirs _ , the story theirs to tell, and the losses their own, too.

Certainly Percy knows of no other city where the Night of the Ascension includes a procession of of  _ two _ black-clad figures; where the market hawkers sell not only plain white masks but also pointy-eared dolls with little black feathered  wings.

The sight, the first year, made him laugh, surprised at himself. But he had to choke back a flood of anger, too, as much for the bittersweet smile on Vex’s face as for the reminder that stirred his own blood.

It had taken him most of the night to recognize the anger for what it was. He’d spent so long angry - five years. More. Always more, springing up seemingly from nowhere in the wake of the massacre, impotent rage he had no way to exorcise. Then: Orthax. Lying in wait, feeding on him like a leech, until the means to take revenge were within reach. And then: the rebellion. Orthax, risen up like a wave, crushing him slowly into nothing--

\--and nothing. Gone. Silence in his head. His friends, his family, ready to fight anything that came for him next.

And then - gods.  _ Cassandra _ . He doesn’t know if he ever thought about what might happen if he returned - no, that’s not true. He’s sure he didn’t. He thought, perhaps, he’d die in the attempt, free Whitestone for someone else to rule. Burn himself up burning them down. He never really thought beyond his revenge, because he was short sighted and young and  _ stupid  _ and his past was gone and there could not possibly be a future, not after everything that happened, after all he’d done.

He knows, reasonably, now, that they wouldn’t have allowed that. Suspects they had any number of contingency plans in case he’d gone truly dark and had to be stopped. Is certain, though he has no detailed knowledge, that they had planned what to do if they had to stop him, what to do with him until they’d dealt with the situation at hand, how to help him later. It’s as utterly humbling as it is infuriating. They  _ should  _ have killed him. It would have been the expedient thing to do, the sensible thing. But then, they’ve never been an especially sensible group. Going up against a titan and a mad false god are only the latest proofs.

Cassandra being alive meant - well. Nothing healthy, not for him. Guilt - but something to do. Something to fix. He’s always been good at fixing things, but it took him a long time to work out that fixing people is not the same as fixing machines. He thinks she’s forgiven him now, mostly, and strange as it seems, that’s down to the only person who’s not around to see it.

Percy offered, the first year after Vasselheim, to take Vex - to take them all - elsewhere. A holiday where the Ascension wouldn’t be so clear and present a reminder. He wasn’t sure he was ready to wallow, and so soon after, he was sure that was what it would be. Not that he can say for sure how it really turned out: the others appeared, one after another, in the days before the festival, not a one of them saying why. Whitestone, like most of the great cities in Tal’Dorei, celebrated the fall of Vecna, and that was reason enough. But that same evening the dark raiments and banners began to appear, and the barrels of drink were rolled out, and they had to make an appearance, all of them, certainly. 

But after the feast, Percy remembers very little. He knows he got very, very drunk, and talked about things he scarcely recalls and is still afraid to ask about, and woke up in his and Vex’s bed, still dressed but with his boots and coat gone. Most of Vox Machina was curled up in various positions throughout the room. Grog was snoring on the floor with Trinket, and Pike and Scanlan were curled together behind him on the bed, and Percy found, once he’d gotten his eyes to stay open, that his head was in Keyleth’s lap, Vex wrapped around her from the other side.

It was so like their early days together, waking ragged and bloody on a tavern floor because they hadn’t enough silver between them to buy a room, that he’d started laughing, waking Keyleth and Pike, who’d tried to smother him with pillows to make the noise stop. The hangover, that morning, was a level of epic worthy of one of Scanlan’s tales.

He never suggested missing the festival again - this year, when everyone appeared, they brought along others: Kima and Allura joined them, this year. Gilmore came with Keyleth, who’d swung through Westruun to retrieve him and the gnomes on her way. They didn’t get quite as drunk, which is possibly progress, and Percy was careful to exercise some caution, mostly because he had plans for after they all retired.

A third guard peers closely into his face as he approaches the small gate in the outer wall, and lets him through without comment. Outside it feels even colder, though he knows it isn’t, but it might simply be that he steps out of a relatively well-lit courtyard into the chill dark of the forest.

He takes no care to move stealthily through the frosty carpet of fallen leaves. He’s known this forest since he was small, and after her first run as Grandmistress of the Grey Hunt, Vex quietly assured him that no one of Whitestone, especially those who dwelt in the castle, would ever have anything to fear from the woods. He’s not sure if that’s just some sixth-sense awareness that comes from her training, or her relationship with Pelor, or even the great grey wolf that still, as far as he knows, walks these woods, but he believes it - well enough that when he hears a large, four-footed creature approaching from behind him, he only sighs, and pauses to let the creature catch up. A moment later, Trinket shoves his great head under Percy’s right arm and makes a soft, distressed sound.

“Now, did she send you, or did you creep away on your own?” Percy asks quietly, but Trinket just rubs his muzzle against Percy’s hip and looks up with guileless brown eyes. Percy only laughs and scratches behind the bear’s ears, then gestures him onward. “Come on,” he says. “It’s not far.”

By luck or coincidence, the moon is nearly full, and the trail is well-lit enough for even Percy’s weak and human eyes to see the way clearly, though it’s a path not often travelled. He keeps one hand on Trinket’s shoulder until they’re well into the woods, the bear’s thick fur keeping at least one hand warm.

They reach their destination unexpectedly, stepping out into a clearing on a bit of a rise; there’s not much to look at, here, just a hill descending into the trees, the distant sound of a stream, and what from a distance, looks like a heavy frost, but when they get closer, resolves into something quite impossible.

A rough wooden bench, surrounded by a thick carpet of snowdrops.

It’s quite absurd, and if Percy hadn’t seen what he’s seen, lived the life he’s lived, he would think it quite mad. But instead, he just laughs.

“So dramatic,” he says, and waits. Nothing. Trinket huffs, looks up at him curiously, and Percy sighs, picking his way carefully through the flowers to the bench, and sits down. Trinket follows, not quite as carefully, but Percy doubts these particular flowers, growing in defiance of all sense or season, are so easily crushed as the bear curls up into a gentle curve at his feet. There are other flowers here, offerings in the vein of what’s offered to Pelor in the new year: bouquets, baskets of fruit, a bundle of colourful feathers mixed with black ones and tied with bright ribbons. The townspeople know about this place, though they never linger, probably out of respect. Probably they wouldn’t mind Trinket pawing at a basket of apples until it tips over, then eating them one by one.  _ Waste not, want not, _ Percy thinks.

The quiet descends like a blanket. It’s not silence, for no forest is ever quite silent. But here, well out of earshot of the town and the castle, there are only forest-sounds, Trinket’s breath, his own heartbeat.

And shortly, something… else.

“You’ll catch your death,” says a shadow out of the corner of Percy’s eye. He freezes, afraid to move and shatter the moment, unsure what he’s done to make this possible, unsure whether he had anything to do with it or merely happened to stumble in on something already in progress. It’s hard to say what effect the focus of gratitude and remembered affection can have on a place, and Percy imagines it a little like the way a point of light focused through a lens can burn paper to ash and air - if a lens could focus a point of perfect darkness into a moment of suspended time. The air around them is still, the breeze fallen silent. Even the leaves have ceased their murmuring, though at Percy’s feet, Trinket has lifted his head, ears pricked up and nose twitching.

When a few seconds tick by and the shadow remains, now a definite shape, Percy lets out a breath; it mists thickly in the air. Apparently time isn’t entirely frozen, after all. He feels all the tension rush out of him, and folds over his knees, head hanging. “If you are another hallucination, or some lingering shadow of a demon, I shall be extremely angry,” he says, still staring at the ground between his boots. “And what’s more, I will call on some very talented friends of mine to blast you into nothing with as much holy light as can be mustered.”

Another moment passes in silence, and then laughter splits the air, a rolling chuckle so familiar that Percy feels tears prick at his eyes. He didn’t expect the laugh, any more than he expects the hand on his shoulder. He certainly doesn’t expect the hand to be warm, but it is - warm enough to feel through his coat.

“Not a demon, Freddie,” says the voice, and finally Percy dares to turn his head, to sit up, leaning into the hand on his shoulder, turning to face the other person now sitting on the bench.

Vax’ildan grins back at him. Percy can’t decide whether to hug him or slap him. Instead, he takes off his glasses, wipes at his eyes, and glares. Vax’s grin fades to a smile. “Gods, I’ve missed you,” he says, and Percy replaces his glasses.

Vax looks much the same as he remembers him, which is a surprise. Somehow he’d expected something more portentous from the servant of a goddess, but he still wears the black armour, the feathered cloak. He wears no daggers, but the cloak is still clasped with the silver raven skull Percy made him, so long ago. Without thinking, he reaches out to touch it; it’s cold, but it’s only the chill of metal on a chilly autumn night. It, and its wearer, still carry the faint aroma of dried herbs. Percy wonders if that’s real, or part of the illusion of Vax’s presence. If it’s just how Vax remembers himself in life.

Percy looks up, then, looks him in the face, and Vax is still smiling, but it’s a soft, small thing. 

“You know we’ve missed you,” he says, and if there’s a hint of accusation there, well - Percy doesn’t regret it. He’s done with those kinds of lies, has been for a long time.

“I know,” Vax agrees. His hand is still on Percy’s shoulder, one foot propped up on the bench, body turned to face him. “I’m sorry about that.”

“If you’re sorry, then why wait so long for this?” Percy asks. His hands are fisted in his lap now, remembering the two months after Vasselheim when Vex - when all of them - kept turning to find Vax gone, as the knowledge took time to settle in. The empty place behind Vex’ahlia’s eyes that had held her other half for so long. He remembers coming here that first autumn, finding the godsdamned flowers thick in the clearing, but the nights as silent as every one before this one. He’d thought it was a sign, but nothing happened. He was furious, that first year. He’s less angry now, but he remembers how it felt.

Vax only shakes his head. “I couldn’t get through, last year,” he says. “And I was… busy. This year - there’s a glow, around this place. Easier to see. But I still…” He looks back along the path, towards the castle. “You’re not the only one who comes here.”

“I know that,” Percy says, slightly impatient. “But surely--”

“I can’t see them. Vex and Kiki.”

Percy considers this for a moment. “Can’t see them as in… you can’t? Or you don’t want to?”

“As in… for fuck’s sake, Percival, of course I want to.” For the first time tonight, Vax’s face loses its easy calm, and he looks miserable. At least until he meets Percy’s eyes again. “It would be too much. I’m not sure… I’m not sure I could make myself leave again, if I saw them.”

Percy frowns at him. “So why come to me?” He tries to decide if the implication is hurtful, or not. “I’m easier to leave?” A part of him, still untouched by the growing contentment of his new life, agrees that this must be the case. Of course he is. It’s clear as the moonlight.

Vax just makes an incredulous, frustrated noise, and the hand on his shoulder gathers in the furred collar at his nape and shakes, hard enough that Percy’s glasses slip down his nose. Percy looks at him, finds Vax’s face exasperated, close. “You never bloody change, do you, Freddie?” he says, and then looks closer, smiles a little, and Percy feels the strange urge to turn away, cross his arms across his chest, like Vax is seeing him quite a bit more bare than he’d prefer. Not that it would be the first time. “No,” says Vax, at length. “That’s not true, is it?” 

He leans back a little, leaving his hand where it is, loose around the back of Percy’s neck. “You look well, Percy.” His posture is relaxed, but there’s a certain greediness in his nearness to Percy, as if he’s been deprived and doesn’t want to show it. Percy supposes the Matron of Ravens isn’t too big on the sort of casual manhandling Vax, in life, tended to indulge in. Percy says nothing - he’s not inclined, by nature or upbringing, to initiate this sort of contact, but Vex and the others spent so long training him up to expect it and gods,  _ gods  _ he’s missed this man. 

“You look…” Percy searches for a way to say  _ the same  _ without saying  _ dead _ , and fails. “Curiously unchanged.”

Vax looks down at himself, quirks an eyebrow. “Ah, yes,” he agrees. “Not the done thing, apparently, but I rather like the way I look, my new status notwithstanding.” He shrugs one shoulder. “She despairs of me, apparently. Says I should be... “

“Moving on?” Percy asks, very quietly. Vax looks at him again, that too-close look, head tilted slightly to one side.

“And I tell her,” says Vax, just as softly, “that that sounds like something you tell the living.”

That’s what does it, at last, turns the sting of imminent tears into real ones, and Percy lets out an irritated sound as he wipes at his face with one sleeve. “Fuck you,” he hisses. “And fuck her, too.”

The hand around the back of his neck squeezes, gently. “Ah, hells,” Vax says, voice full of regret. “I’m sorry.”

“I know you are,” says Percy. “That doesn’t make it any better.”

“No,” agrees Vax. “Only time can do that.” His hand moves away, comes to rest on Percy’s arm, as though he’s reluctant to let go. “So what has life and time brought you, then, Lord de Rolo?” 

“Don’t you know?” Percy asks, genuinely curious. He’s far from an expert on the immortal realms, and his recent interest in the subject aside he’s sure Vax’s case isn’t a typical one. But Vax is shaking his head.

“Not… exactly,” he says. “I get… glimpses, sometimes. I know you’re all safe. It’s not unlike the way I could sense Vecna, near the end - a lot less painful. Or… well. No. Not really. But sort of.”

Percy thinks about that. “That sounds… like shit, actually.” When Vax laughs, he tries to smile. “But then it hasn’t been all music and roses from this side, either.”

The laugh fades away, and Vax looks sorry again.

“Last year was… hard,” Percy tells him, hearing the way his voice breaks on the words and swallowing it back.

“But you were together.” It’s not a question. Vax is sure. Percy nods. “That’s what matters,” Vax says then, and Percy looks at him. 

“So why me?” asks Percy. “Not that I’m not… happy. To see you. Especially after last year. I thought…” He trails off, looking away, until Vax’s hand jostles a little. 

“You thought what?”

“That maybe I’d imagined it - feeling something… here. That maybe I was going mad.” He looks at Vax, sees the unhappy expression, and immediately feels guilty. “I don’t have the best history with otherworldly beings. At least not friendly ones. And I’ve gone to great lengths to make myself unattractive to the kindlier gods. Which didn’t leave a lot of pleasant options if I was just…” He shrugs. “I’m still only mostly convinced you’re really here, now.”

In response, Vax pinches him, hard enough that Percy yelps, slapping his hand away. Vax’s hand snakes back up around his arm quickly enough.

“Look, it doesn’t make sense. Why me? The least spiritual person in perhaps all of Tal’dorei, and certainly in this city. Absolutely the least in our little family. Why me? Why not Keyleth, or gods above, your sister? If you only knew how she…” Percy stops, sure all of a sudden that Vex would not want her brother to know how she’s grieved him - how she’s still grieving. They both always wanted to seem so selfish, when in reality they were both always among the least selfish people he’s ever met, both so willing to give up everything if it meant protecting their chosen few.

“I couldn’t, Percy.” Vax turns to look out into the forest, expression difficult to read, or at least difficult for a man not married to his twin. It’s the same face Vex wears when she talks about Back Then, when she doesn’t want to upset someone else. Vax turns back, shaking his head.

“After I… left, there was a long time where all I knew was the other place. The place beyond here. I can’t really describe it to you, and to be honest I hope it’s a long time before you can understand.” The fingers on his arm tighten briefly, apparently unnoticed. “Time doesn’t mean much. But eventually I started to remember, remember all of you, and I wanted to look in. But I couldn’t. It was all just… so far away. And I wasn’t strong enough yet. She said… she said I needed rest. I saw… I saw my mother. It was… good.”

There’s a pause, while Vax blinks very fast - if he weren’t dead, Percy would imagine he were trying not to cry.

“And then… then I started to get sense of what it was like, back here. I still couldn’t see you - the dead aren’t meant to walk among the living, even the ones like me who aren’t quite following the usual rules. It’s supposed to be difficult, that’s the whole point. But some bonds… they transcend… everything.”

“Even death?” Percy asks. It’s only half a question.

“Sort of,” Vax hedges. “But the truth is, I mostly didn’t worry about the people I left behind. Not really.”

“No?”

“No. Because you all still had each other. And I know you. I knew how you’d manage. And the closer we came ‘round to the Ascension again, to everything thinning out so I could see through,  _ feel  _ through, here and there, I thought about what I would do. Where I would go. Ghosts really do walk the world tonight, you know. It’s just that most people can’t see them, or hear them.”

“Well,” Percy sighs, “at least I wasn’t making things up in my head. I really have been hearing you, haven’t I?”

“You have.” Vax pouts at him, an exaggerated expression that makes him look very like Vex. “Because I’ve never met a man so stubborn, Percival. I had to shout to make myself heard - with the others I could have simply whispered. But you…”

Percy smirks at him. “The floral display wouldn’t have been sign enough?”

“Oh, this?” Vax raises an eyebrow. “This wasn’t me. At least, not deliberately. I think…” He nudges one of the baskets with a toe. “Places of remembrance are a lot like temples. Belief makes things... flexible, and sometimes reality just… reacts.” He shrugs. “I told you, this place has a glow. All that belief, it calls out to me. It’s connected to me. And  _ you  _ are tied to every square inch of this place - it’s in your blood.”

“I am?” Percy is a little surprised - at least, to hear it put like that. As a child he always felt safe in these woods. Even after everything was cut down around him, it wasn’t Whitestone that frightened him - Whitestone, despite everything, was  _ home _ . 

“I never thought about it like that.” A lens, he thinks, definitively. Or… a spyglass? He’ll have to think about it.

Vax scoffs, shaking his head. “You wouldn’t,” he agrees.

More or less as Percy thought. “You’re missed,” he says, voice low.

“I know,” Vax agrees.

“So what did you see, while you were skulking around?”

“It’s not exactly… I told you, I just get a sense of people. And it’s not always clear. But knowing you all made it easier. Pike knows I’m here. Hells, she built this place - she’s never doubted it. Grog doesn’t really think about death as death, I don’t think, and Scanlan still feels too guilty to turn his thoughts towards me very often. You should… if you could tell him, not now, but someday soon, to cut that shit out, I’d be grateful. Maybe coming from you, he’d listen.”

Percy nods. He’s noticed that, himself - that Scanlan, generally much happier these days, with Pike’s hand in his and Kaylie smiling at him with no more blame in her eyes, gets quiet when the subject comes around to Vax. It was most of six months before he confided what he’d planned, made Percy swear never to tell. Percy wasn’t sure how to feel that Scanlan had been so sure that he, of all of them, wouldn’t hold his “failure” against him. He doesn’t, of course. But Scanlan still sees it that way - thinks he could have come up with something else, some other, clever way to free Vax from his bargain before it was too late. Yesterday, when Vex had shared their news, Scanlan’s face had been a study in contradictory emotions: pain and joy in equal measure.

“I have my own ways of seeing Kiki that don’t hurt her like this would,” Vax goes on, and Percy doesn’t  _ know _ , but suspects he knows what that means. Ravens have never been more populous in Whitestone than in the year after Vax’s departure, and they’ve become something of a mascot in the city. “And Vex…”

He falls silent again, the hand on Percy’s arm loose and heavy.

“I can feel her, still, sometimes - every so often, like a bolt from the blue.”

“Two halves of a whole,” Percy ventures. “That’s not a bond that easily breaks.”

“No,” Vax agrees. He takes a deep breath - it’s incongruous, and Percy can’t help thinking whether the breath is real, or whether it’s just reflexive. 

“She’s pregnant,” Percy says then, the words dropped into the quiet like stones into a pond, and Vax turns to stare, mouth open, train of thought truly and utterly broken. 

“Two months, give or take,” Percy continues, throat tight with something indescribably sad even as the grin spreads across his face. “And Pike is quite certain it’s twins.”

“...Percy! You--” And Vax drags him into a hug that drives all the air out of his lungs. After a moment, he has to slap at Vax’s back.

“Some of us still need to breathe,” he wheezes, and Vax lets him go, hands still on his shoulders, grinning with delight and tears on his cheeks. He ducks in, kisses Percy on both cheeks, and then the mouth, and pulls back just far enough that Percy is, finally, quite sure that the man before him isn’t really breathing. He can feel the warmth of his body answering the flush of heat in Percy’s face, but…

“I am so…” Vax starts, and has to swallow back some great emotion before continuing. “I cannot even tell you how happy I am to hear that. I am…” 

Percy didn’t think far enough ahead - he should have brought something to drink. But he wasn’t sure exactly what would happen, was he?

They sit together in companionable silence for a while, staring out into the dark. Trinket has curled up to doze, and Percy is trying very hard not to say  _ you should have been here _ , and  _ you would have been a good father _ , and  _ my children should have known you _ , because it seems cruel, and anyway he’s sure Vax can  _ sense _ the words, somehow. It feels cruel enough that all of those things are true.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” Percy says, after a time.

“Why you?” Vax nods. “Because you were the only one I was worried about.”

“Me?” Percy is bewildered. “But I’m--”

“Percival de Rolo,” Vax cuts him off impatiently, “don’t you fucking dare say you’re fine. People who are fine don’t leave their warm beds and beautiful wives to sit in the woods in the middle of the freezing cold night.”

Percy glares at him. “I’m better,” he says.

“No doubt,” Vax agrees, but raises his eyebrows. “But fine is a good ways off. And you know what? That’s all right.”

“I’m not quite as fragile as you all seem to think me,” Percy tells him. It’s always grated a bit. The only human in their little band, they were never exactly careful with him, but there was always an awareness. Over the last month or so Percy has devoted a fair amount of energy to  _ not thinking about  _ the amount by which his children will outlive him. Children, he tells himself, are supposed to outlive their parents. Beside him, Vax lets out an impatient noise, then his face goes thoughtful. 

“People die, Percy.”

Percy rolls his eyes. “I do realize you’re the expert now, but--” Vax talks right over him.

“It happens. It’s part of the natural order of things. People die, and they leave people behind. And they’re missed.”

Percy frowns at him, eyes narrowed. This feels like a trap. “Of course.”

“But it’s all right.”

Percy wants to clench his teeth. To make a fist. To protest that it’s  _ not  _ bloody all right, as a matter of fact. That it’s absolutely unacceptable. That it’s unfair, unjust. But Vax is simply staring at him, with a sort of gentle, infinite patience Percy doesn’t remember once seeing in him when he was alive. Percy waves a hand irritably, in a  _ go on, then _ , sort of motion, and Vax sighs.

“We’re supposed to miss people,” he says. “It’s part of what makes us  _ alive _ , all right? You miss your family - your parents, your brothers and sisters. But they’re not gone, you know that. If you don’t, then listen to me, because I can tell you.” Vax places a hand on Percy’s chest, heavy and warm through all his layers, fingers spread. “They’re still here, in all the ways that matter, all the ways they changed you. And so am I. The same way all of you are with me, wherever I am.

“And yet some part of you, Percival de Rolo, you stubborn, arrogant bastard, despite everything you’ve seen, everything you’ve done, all the living gods you’ve stared in the face, still didn’t quite believe that where I went was a real place. That I hadn’t been doomed to oblivion. So here I am, to offer proof to that damned cynical brain of yours.”

Percy stares at him. He can feel the tears springing up again, doesn’t bother to fight them. “I’m sorry,” he blurts, unable to stop the words because he genuinely wasn’t expecting them. 

Well. That explains a great deal.

“For what? I don’t--” Vax’s face is bewildered. Percy shakes his head.

“Getting you into this in the first place.”

Vax looks stricken. His hands move to hold Percy’s shoulders, warm and tight. “Percy - I forgave you long ago.”

“It’s down to me that there was anything to forgive. If I hadn’t done what I did, you never would have had to make that deal. It was my carelessness that set you on this path.”

Vax shakes his head. “I made my choice. And if I hadn’t - never mind Vex, or the tomb, or anything else. Imagine all the things I couldn’t have done if I hadn’t gone into her service. Imagine how that final battle would have gone without her influence.”

Percy scoffs. “I can’t even begin to imagine--”

“And that’s exactly my point. You can’t imagine. Even I can’t see how everything works out, how it could have or will do, and my view’s a fair bit longer than it once was.” 

He sighs, looking irritable. “You want to know a secret those immortal fuckers don’t like to tell? They don’t know either. The whole world, past, present and future, is just a lot of turns they can’t predict, at least not most of them. People are tricky. We’re unpredictable. That’s why they need us, and we need them. You fucked up, but people fuck up every day and it all works out. We all did, one time or another. If it hadn’t been the tomb, maybe it would have been something else. And maybe it wouldn’t.”

Percy says nothing. He can think of no sensible rejoinder, at least nothing that hasn’t already been said. Vax looks at him closely.

“Percy. It’s been years, and it’s behind us all - far, far behind me. It worked out to my satisfaction, and I don’t blame you. You are my brother, and I love you. Let it go.”

It’s funny - people describe an epiphany, sometimes as a great weight lifting. If anything, this is the opposite. A great weight settling around him, something warm and comforting, like a fur or a blanket or - oh. A pair of arms. Vax is holding him close, tight enough that Percy’s glasses are askew, the forest a dark blur around him. Eventually, Vax draws back, lets him put himself back in order, or as close as he can get.

“I was looking forward to that, you know. Being your brother.” Percy sniffles, wipes at his nose with a coat sleeve. 

“Freddie,” says Vax, very seriously, “you already were.”

***

Vex doesn’t ask, in the morning, though she wears a frown that makes Percy sure she suspects  _ something _ . Trinket is a fine distraction, though, rolling to show her a belly full of leaves and debris Percy forgot to brush out of his coat last night. By the time Vex is settled in with a wooden-handled brush, Trinket rumbling with pleasure, Percy has made his escape down to breakfast, a parting kiss pressed to the part in her hair.

The others are mostly still abed, when he walks into the sunlit breakfast room. Cassandra has been and gone, already hard at work, as he should be, but he’s granted a lot of leeway, the day after the festival. 

Seated at the long table are only two of his family: Keyleth, who is reading a book and sipping from a mug of tea, and a few seats down, hair a little messy and wearing only breeches and an untucked shirt, Scanlan. 

Keyleth looks up and smiles, gives him a little wave, and returns to her book - no hangovers for the Voice of the Tempest, apparently. She seems lighter than she did this morning last year, and also like she’s not particularly interested in talking. Percy surprises himself by clasping her shoulder as he passes, less surprised by the way she absently reaches up to squeeze his hand.

Scanlan is bent over a steaming mug, both elbows on the table and his head hanging low, a half-empty plate pushed a little distance away. Percy fills a plate and mug of his own and goes to sit down across from him.

At the sound of the dishes setting down, Scanlan flinches. “Keep it down, would you?” he says, squinting up at Percy. 

Percy raises an eyebrow, fighting a smile. “I take it Pike wasn’t awake to heal your hangover,” he guesses.

“I offered,” Keyleth says, still not looking up from her book. Not so absent as Percy thought, perhaps. Ah, well. A conversation for a later time.

“I earned this hangover, and I intend to treasure it,” Scanlan tells him solemnly,  sliding both hands around a mug that, in his possession, looks very large. They do have gnome-sized cups in the castle - there are even some stacked on the sideboard, along with the bucket-sized ones intended to fit Goliath hands - but Scanlan always goes for the human-sized ones anyway.

“Whatever you say, old man,” Percy says, reaching for his own mug. Scanlan makes a rude gesture, almost reflexively. There's a while of easy silence, while the sun makes its way across the floor, a skewed angle of brilliant yellow creeping up onto the table. Percy holds out a hand, feels the warmth on his skin.

“You’re in a good mood,” Scanlan observes, and Percy looks up. Scanlan is still frowning over his mug, but there’s a hint of his usual keenness making its way to the fore. The hangover must be fading already.

“I... suppose I am,” he says slowly, hearing the surprise in his own voice.

“You’re usually not,” Scanlan tells him, holding one hand cupped to the side of his mouth like he’s telling a secret. It’s an invitation to smile, and Percy does, briefly. 

Scanlan nods. “Well, it’s a new day. And you’ve got plenty of good news to be looking forward to.”

There’s a certain too-hearty edge to the words. And Scanlan is a skilled liar, always has been, but Percy has known him a long time now and anyway, he made a promise, of sorts.

“I do,” he agrees. “And so do you.”

Scanlan raises an eyebrow, tilts his head a little.

“Who else is going to teach my children their music? Gods know I’m not qualified, and Vex…”

Scanlan’s entire face screws up in another wince, this one brought on by a pain more spiritual than physical. Probably remembering the time he finally told Vex her singing sounded like she was murdering a cat. “Right. I’m your man.” He knocks gently on the table, one-two-three. A deal made and sealed. 

He’s smiling, though, which isn’t nothing. Percy takes it for the vow that it is: he knows about Scanlan’s little project, the book Pike says he slaves over for hours every day: their story. The story of Vox Machina. Scanlan’s favourite songs have always been the ones with a good story at the core, and their story is a good one, however accurate the printed version ends up being. Certainly Scanlan is better qualified to tell that story to his children than he’ll ever be.

The quiet descends again, but it’s less heavy than before. Beyond the door, Percy can hear the castle waking up, servants passing in the hall, voices several rooms away. At length, Scanlan clears his throat, and Percy looks at him. He seems unsure, like he doesn’t want to say the wrong thing. Far enough out of character that Percy thinks - well, maybe today is not the day. Maybe today, it would do more harm than good.

“He’d be happy, you know,” Scanlan says, shrugging one shoulder awkwardly, his voice low, though Percy has no doubt Keyleth can hear every word.

Not today, Percy thinks again. But soon. “I know,” he says instead, and tries to let his certainty come through - what he knows for a fact.

Scanlan raises his eyebrows, surprised. “You do?” he says. A moment later, he laughs. “Well.” He lifts his mug, taps it gently against Percy’s where it’s still sitting on the table. “To new beginnings.”

Percy nods. “And old friends.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Keyleth has gone still. But a moment later, she’s lifting her cup to her lips.

For now, Percy thinks, it’s good enough.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] The Wee Small Hours](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17722802) by [poppyseedheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/poppyseedheart/pseuds/poppyseedheart)




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